Today's buried under the promise of tomorrow
tomorrow's yesterday adrift in delusions
of a future in vain from the inaction of today
the future of today cheated by the yearning of the subsequent
the past a lesson forgotten today yet relived tomorrow
Goodbye yesterday's tomorrow, it's time to lose the present to the future and the future to a present endlessly hallucinating
the progress of another day another time

We never stopped dealing with this procrastination,
but what is this fleeting elation?

The clock is moving in such motion,
one would think that it's your imagination;
Was it all an exaggeration?

The problem is I start things,
But never seem to finish.
As soon as I put pen to paper
words start to deminish.
Motivation nor determination
never seem to lend
me the gumption or the grit
to ever reach...

Deadlines
Procrastination
Anxiety
and Doubt

That is the reason I never change now
Yet, I smile from the pressure.
I surely don't enjoy this,
it doesn't really change with time

Tick tick tick
My internal clock's ticking
**** **** ****
Why haven't I started working
One thousand words
Sure feels like a lot
I've got more in my mind
But it's hard to pen down thoughts
In the correct order
Clear and concise
I scribble on the borders
But I need to write
This essay is due
I might be up all night...

Haven't seen him smile right in
Quite the while but I know
He's a smart boy, so he must know
How to escape his little slump.

Peter does not know
The true size of his slump.
Only that She's got
A soft, pooling belly under
Plumes of purple smoke
Floating over her wax *******;
Perfect for forgetting.

He's trying to breathe through cold drizzle
Photosynthesize through linen tarp
I say he chooses not to leave the rain
And he nods.

I hold a record
That improves with every word
I leave behind me

maybe i leave it all till the last minute because some gritty part of me loves the rapid pulse of pulling back right before the truck turns the corner and blows through the stretch of hot asphalt i was just lying down and burning my skin on. it tears down the road, out of sight, and i’ve still got all my limbs intact. maybe almost failing feels a bit like cheating death, like how breathing feels after a contest of who can hold it longer in the motel pool, or how good a glass of ice-cold water tastes after downing a bag of potato chips. there are plenty of hours in the day. i could wake up at six or sleep in till noon and it wouldn’t make much of a difference. i’m just a girl who loves the taste of scraping by.